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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27909784">eyes are tired from the night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesdayevening/pseuds/wednesdayevening'>wednesdayevening</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Exile, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, This is all sad, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Tommyinnit needs a hug, no beta we die like l'manberg, not my best writing, still. enjoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:48:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,070</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27909784</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesdayevening/pseuds/wednesdayevening</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He walks until he finds L’Manberg. He sits on the bank of one of the outer rivers and takes in the growing skyline. There are hundreds of new silhouettes. He’s missed out on so, so much. </p><p>He doesn’t have a music disc. Not anymore. But he still has the sunset - the faithful reds and oranges and comforting yellows and purples. The artwork they create is beautiful. Around him, he hears the rattling of skeletons, the low growls of zombies and the hiss of gunpowder in a Creeper. </p><p>“I’m home,” He says. </p><p>The sunset is the last thing he sees.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dave | Technoblade &amp; TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade &amp; Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>882</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>eyes are tired from the night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>a fic about tommy's exile i pulled out of my ass at work. sorry boss. inspired by my heart is buried in Venice by VITRIoL</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Technoblade comes to visit him. His hair is pink and short, cut just below his jawline. The old Tommy would wish whoever cut it to focus the blade a little more on the neck and not the hair. This Tommy doesn’t care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you seen Dad?” His voice comes out scratchy and gravelly with disuse. It’s not unlike this Tommy, who has no use for speaking - nobody talks to him. Technoblade looks surprised. The Tommy he knew never shut up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Blade nods slowly. “He’s been fixing up L’Manberg. It’s quite the sight now. Spends a lot of time with Fundy and Tubbo. And Wil.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy nods. His Dad spending more time with his former best friend (his </span>
  <em>
    <span>exiler</span>
  </em>
  <span>) stings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy watches Techno’s Adam's apple bobble. “Has - has Dad not come to visit you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Visit you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Like he’s a patient in an asylum, a prisoner in an orange jacket, numbers branded on his chest. Tommy thinks that’s a good analogy. His entire world is barred. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Prison</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tommy ponders, </span>
  <em>
    <span>is probably nicer than this. I’d kill to appeal my sentence. To see someone properly, even with a chain around my ankle and a weapon against my neck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” He says. “That’s fine, though. I don’t mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a lie, of course. The only person Tommy misses more than his Dad is Tubbo. There’s a constant pull in his chest, a consistent want for his father. All he wants to do is to feel his arms tight around him, to hear his soft voice whisper anything in his ear. Asking him would be a burden, though. Tommy’s already too big of one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Technoblade takes his mask off and cradles it in his calloused hands. Tommy watches the emotion flicker on his exposed face: anger, sadness, disappointment. It feels worse than a broken bone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll speak to him,” Techno says. He sounds defeated. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Technoblade never dies</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his brain supplies. “Toms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Tommy whispers. “What.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth. I’m so, so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy shakes his head. He doesn’t say anything else. Technoblade leaves after. He doesn’t see his brother cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy doesn’t know how to put his hatred for Dream into words. His skin</span>
  <em>
    <span> explodes</span>
  </em>
  <span> with loathing every time he sees him, every time Dream rifles through his chests or tells him taunting stories of a thriving L’Manberg. Every fibre of his being, every atom, every quark </span>
  <em>
    <span>screams</span>
  </em>
  <span> with hatred for the man. It bubbles up under his skin and tears apart his insides, wrecks his organs and burns his bones. He sees Dream, and he wants him dead. He tells him this. Dream only laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are but a child,” He says, confiscating the iron axe he’d managed to smelt earlier that week. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll never stop, will you?” Tommy says at his retreating green form. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not until I win,” Dream grins childishly. Like this is all a fucking game. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you win,” Tommy repeats, a murmur to himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hopes Dream enjoys his victory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tubbo’s so happy, Tommy,” Wilbur - Ghostbur says. He’s smiling in that horrible innocent way. Tommy swallows bile. “He’s so happy - you should see him. There are flowers and animals everywhere - oh! Oh! The bees, Tommy, there are so many bees in L’Manberg, you have to come see it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When are you coming to see it?” Ghostbur says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy bends over on his form, resting his head in his hands. The old Tommy would never cry. This Tommy doesn’t quite care enough to hide his tears. They fall on his armor-less lap and stain the blue fabric. He doesn’t wear his red and white shirt anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When are you coming home, Tommy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow, Wil,” Tommy wipes the tears from his eyes and glances up toward his brother. His face aches with the unfamiliar movement of smiling. “I’m coming home tomorrow.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghostbur leaves mid-morning. Something about Nikki’s flower shop, or Tubbo. Tommy can’t remember. He doesn’t care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds his old red and white shirt dusty at the bottom of a chest. It’s moth eaten. He traces the hole in the back of the shirt, courtesy of Dream’s axe, and remembers the weapon in his back as he was marshalled from his home. He dusts the cobwebs from the fabric and slips it over his sallow skin. His brown pants are there too. He puts them on. There’s one item left in the chest - a crumpled picture of him and Tubbo. His arm is around his best friend. There’s a wide grin on his face. His own face aches with the phantom movement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy pockets the picture and walks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks until finds L’Manberg. He sits on the bank of one of the outer rivers and takes in the growing skyline. There are hundreds of new silhouettes. He’s missed out on so, so much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t have a music disc. Not anymore. But he still has the sunset - the faithful reds and oranges and comforting yellows and purples. The artwork they create is beautiful. Around him, he hears the rattling of skeletons, the low growls of zombies and the hiss of gunpowder in a Creeper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m home,” He says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sunset is the last thing he sees. </span>
</p><p>-</p><p>
  <span>It’s Phil who finds his body. Ghostbur had said Tommy was coming to visit, but he wasn’t there yet, and that he was worried. Phil had volunteered to go and look before Dream found out. He wishes he didn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His son is lying on the grass. His hair is bloody, white shirt red. There are arrows in his torso and zombie bites on his arms. His eyes are open, unblinking. As Phil moves to close them, he notes they are no longer blue, but a pale grey. For some reason, that saddens him the most. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shouldn’t there be a ghost?” Tubbo whispers that night, once he’s finished crying. Phil looks to Ghostbur expectantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghostbur’s face is more translucent than normal. His outline vibrates as his shoulders shake with unshed tears. “No,” He says, and his voice is pitiful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you die,” He whispers, “You choose. Do you stay dead, or do you come back? I came back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at the corpse of his little brother. He looks so peaceful - the ghost of a smile etched into his forever sixteen year old face. It’s the first smile he’s seen Tommy wear in far too long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tommy chose not to come back.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank u for reading :) i love reading comments so go ahead and drop one just like technoblade dropkicks orphans</p></blockquote></div></div>
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